“Something happen?” he asks eventually.
Even though they only met once, I almost tell him about Chloe. About the whole wreckage of it. About how he was right—people leave. People always leave.
But I can’t.
Some memories are all he has left. I’m not about to stain them with mine.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Had a rough day.”
Another pause. My fingers tremble against the phone.
“Don’t get soft,” he mutters finally, voice fading at the edges. “Rough days make you better.”
A dry laugh escapes me.
“You know,” he says after a moment, tone softening—an old habit. “Your mother used to say you get your stubbornness from me.”
I don’t answer. I sit there, breathing him in, this version of him. The one that flickers in and out like old radio.
“He’s just like his mother,”I remember him saying once.
I was ten. Small. Stupid enough to think love was unconditional.
“Nolan is young. Cut him a break,”my uncle had argued.
But even then, there’d been that undertow of doubt.
“Too much heart,”my dad had said, like it was a flaw.“Too much trust. You’ll see. One day he’ll figure it out. Being the nice guy will get you nowhere.”
I press the heel of my hand into my eye. He was right. I did figure it out. But not soon enough.
“Well,” he says a little softer. “I guess it’s good to hear your voice.”
I close my eyes. “Yeah. You too.”
We sit in it for a second. Not a connection. Not a reconciliation. Just a layover in familiar silence.
“Call me when it’s a good day,” he says, a trace of hope threading the words.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Okay.”
The line clicks.
For a long time, I sit there, phone pressed to my ear, listening to the silence.
Leaning back, I rub at the bridge of my nose, thoughts swirling, and like an old habit, I start replaying my mistakes. Self-blame is practically second nature.
I stand, move over to the picture of Chloe and I then grab it and head up to my rooftop terrace. The warm night air rushes in, carrying the scent of sweet florals.
The city vibrates below, oblivious to my heartbreak.
Fixing things with Chloe started small. She’d get quiet after an argument, her frustration radiating in waves until I caved and apologized—sometimes for things I didn’t even do. It was easier that way.Keep the peace, Nolan. Don’t rock the boat. Just bottle it and move on.
Except now, the boat is capsized, and I’m drowning in the wreckage.
And I missedallof it.
I’ve come to realize that the smug fucking smirk engraved in Jackson’s face was never just a smirk...
